


That Was Normal?

by Emby_M



Category: Red Dead Redemption (Video Games)
Genre: Dutch and Hosea are Married, Dutch is Mentally Ill, Gen, Healing, Hosea is Very Good At Dealing With Mental Illness And Trauma, Hosea is an LGBTQ elder, Hosea talks about Dutch, Medical Examination, Modifications to Backstory, Orville is Very Competent When Sober, Panic Attacks, Past Abuse, Past Sexual Abuse, People are nice to Kieran, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, past trauma, playing fast and loose with canon
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-03-02
Updated: 2019-03-14
Packaged: 2019-11-07 23:08:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 9,185
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17969807
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Emby_M/pseuds/Emby_M
Summary: Hosea grins wildly. "Oh, I like him," he says to Orville, who is now smiling along with him, as he feels along Kieran's scalp.Kieran feels a heat flush into his cheeks. And it's the first time it hasn't been accompanied by that low-burning, post-vomit feeling in his throat.-Kieran learns he deserves much better than he was ever given in the O'Driscolls, thanks to his new friend Hosea.





	1. Over-Exertion

**Author's Note:**

> I know it's pretty common to have everyone in camp hate Kieran -- at first and throughout his living with the gang... but we never do see Hosea interact with Kieran. So I took it from there.  
> Colm and Kieran had an... interesting relationship which was about as far from healthy as you can get. It did nothing good for Kieran. Colm would deny he had any attraction to men, but uh... he keeps Kieran as his "wife" for over a decade, so.  
> Expect more of Hosea and Kieran being frens,,,

That slim old man comes up to him.

The slim old man -- he wasn't like Dutch. Far as he's seen, he's another leader, but so different from Dutch, from Colm, from anyone he'd ever seen wield power.

Dutch -- Dutch was boisterous, charismatic. Almost a showman. He'd felt it, the way he'd spoken before, condemning Kieran to that meager hut, barely warm. How he would arrive while Bill loomed over him, voice way too close to the tone Colm would take when he would discover his boys wrecking Kieran, pause them like he was going to stop them, and then just order the violence to continue.

This man -- Hosea -- was different. This man had power -- people listened to what he said, and his word was absolute, but he never used it just to show he had it. The women in camp were always flagging him down to talk about anything, even things Kieran thinks are pointless. The kind of things you talk to yourself about because no one else cared. Hosea listened.

The mother -- Abigail? -- could leave her son with him. The kid trusted him, would teeter-run over shouting "Uncle Hosea!" and jumping into the awaiting arms, while Hosea would groan and say, "Little prince, you're going to break this old man's bones!" and yet would always welcome the kid into his arms.

He was kind, and steadfast, and predictable.

Hosea comes over and unties him from the tree.

Something dumb and primal in him tells him to run, but the simple, open look that man gives him keeps him still.

"Well, I'm sorry I couldn't get to you earlier, son," he says quietly, a smile on his face, "But do you mind coming with me so our doctor can examine you?"

He doesn't reply, not immediately. Couldn't. Wouldn't. Even if he objects -- and maybe he does, maybe he should after all the things he got back in the O'Driscoll's that were "examinations," all the things they put in him as jokes and as degradation and as punishment.

"Please don't hurt me," he whimpers. He hates the sound of his voice. That grating sound. But there is no eloquence in the face of blind fear. It's all he can think to say.

"I won't do any such thing," Hosea says. He hovers a hand just above Kieran's freed forearm. "Can I touch you, gently?"

Kieran swallows. He's not sure he knows that word anymore.

When he doesn't respond, Hosea just straightens again after a moment, and takes a step back. "Alright," he says, smiling a little, "If you feel well enough, just follow me."

Hosea takes a step forwards.

His legs feel like a foal's, weak and trembling and sweaty. He's been standing nonstop since they got to this camp. It feels like the last time he wasn't standing was in the shed with Bill -

Bill. Where is he, in camp, now? Is he near?

Bill could have been an O'Driscoll in another life, the way he'd grabbed and forced and shoved Kieran around. Bill, whose torture took a weird edge, an edge he knew and was familiar with, cruel and somehow lustful.

Still, Kieran manages to step again towards Hosea.

And so it goes, slowly. The man walks forward, Kieran follows. When his legs nearly buckle under, the weakness in his legs searing brightly, the man holds his hands out, like he was going to catch Kieran if he fell. But still he doesn't touch.

They get to a tent. It's bigger than some of them -- about the size of a wagon. Inside is a cot, some chest-of-drawers, and a long table with medicine bottles on it.

A doctor's tent.

He hasn't seen a doctor in a long time.

"If you want, you could sit. Do you want a chair? I'd imagine you're pretty tired," Hosea says.

Funny how those words could just be mocking, if anyone else said it. Even if someone like Dutch said them. But the old man seems to mean it.

So- quietly, Kieran manages to say, "Yes, please, sir."

"Sure," he says, and takes a chair from the corner of the room, letting Kieran get in as well as he can with all the pain. It isn't so bad, but when he folds like this, it's a lot worse. Kieran's breath leaves him.

The man leans against the table, quietly looking at the bottles with idle interest. "Orville should be in soon. I let him know you were coming yesterday, so he's hopefully sober."

The tent is quiet. Despite the ache in his ribs, sitting is better. He's still and hungry and thirsty too, will have to relieve himself sometime soon, but sitting is worlds better than standing on his creaky legs.

The doctor comes in. On his head is a bright shock of carroty hair, streaked with silver-gray. On his lip is a bushy but tamed mustache. And on his neck is a clerical collar.

Oh no.

Nope, nope, nope nope. No. No way in hell. Not another priest. Not another one who would look at his injuries and dismiss him and say that he deserved them all -- _"Young Kieran, if you'd simply have done what your mother asks she would not beat you. Pay respect to your mother and father for they are like the Lord unto you."_

No. No no no.

Hosea looks at him, furrows his brows a little. Kieran does not move, even though his heart is pounding and his breathing had doubled. It's nearly audible now, and he's trying to stifle down the sounds - _"Young Kieran, do not breathe like that in the confessional."_

"Oh, Jesus," the priest says, "Hosea, what have they been doing to this kid?"

...?

That voice is different. It's very different. Rough, and gravelly.

Not the voice of a priest.

The priest-doctor takes off his outer coat, and rolls up his sleeves until they are over his elbows. Hosea asks, "Anything you need help with?"

"Uh, yes -- Just like you've done with -- uh, our mutual friend," the priest-doctor says.

He runs his fingers through his coppery-silvery hair and musses it before turning back and kneeling in front of the chair Kieran is in.

"Um, hello. What- What's your name, kid?"

His voice is kind of rough and raspy, with a strange stilted rhythm. He just kneels there, though, hands carefully in his lap, leaning into Kieran a little, close enough to be friendly but not close enough to make Kieran any antsier.

"Uh- Kieran. Kieran Duffy."

He nods, a little, then puts his hand on his chest. "Hello, Kieran. Um, my name is Orville. Swanson to a few. Reverend to others."

"...Catholic?" Kieran wagers. Hates the way his voice warbles over the syllables.

"Um, yes, formerly. Still," Orville screws up his brows, "Ah, these days I'm... uh. Let's not get into that."

Hosea, behind him, crosses his arms and laughs quietly.

"Don't- don't tease me, Hosea."

"I wasn't teasing you, you big lummox," Hosea says, totally light.

"Um, now, Kieran - We'd like to, uh, examine you, er, no, we'd like to look you over. Um, this might seem... a bit silly, seeing as you'll be tied up for a bit longer, at least until - well- Hosea?"

Hosea comes over, standing at Orville's shoulder, his slim fingers resting there. Kieran kind of likes the way Orville looks up at Hosea, like prayer, with a loose smile.

"What the Reverend is trying to say is that -- we're keeping you here. And so we'd rather not have you die of something preventable. So the Reverend here is going to look you over, make sure you aren't dying, okay?"

?

Kieran knits up his brows.

"Oh, um-" the Reverend stutters, "You _could_  say no. I wouldn't but, uh-"

"Okay," Kieran says.

It's maybe the first time anyone's... cared. The first time someone gave him a real choice, didn't just expect him to go with the one they wanted. When Colm asked, there wasn't a choice. It was like Option A was being shoved in his face, and Option B was sitting in the middle of a bear trap.

The Reverend stands, offers his hands to Kieran.

He takes them, and likes the rough-hewn way they are, how gentle the Reverend's hold is despite it.

"Um, so- You'll lie down on this cot -- if it's comfortable. I can get you some pillows to prop you up- Hosea was telling me you've been wheezing so I think maybe the ride with Arthur might have fractured your ribs. Hosea?"

Hosea is already there with some pillows, big ones with fringe borders. Hosea sets them down at the head of the cot and spreads a clean blanket underneath.

"Oh, your legs, too, huh?" Orville says, when they walk over together, Kieran's hands in his, "No, I take that back - You look like everything's in pain."

He hadn't considered it. He hasn't considered it. The amount of pain he was in -- as long as he could move, it was okay. As long as he could breathe, it was okay. As long as no one noticed-

Orville and Hosea help him down onto the cot, and a burst of pain shatters along his side like a beer bottle smashed against his head. He gasps, loud, and the two men stop in their tracks.

"Can you keep going, son?" Hosea says, the three of them in a weird pose, Kieran clutching up, holding himself at an angle with his stomach muscles, the two men trying to support him down, their hands on his back.

"Yes," he chokes, and they help him lay down fully.

"Easy, easy... you're doing great, son," Hosea says. His voice is soft, ground down with age, but- reassuring.

He manages to lay down. The pillows are firm, and it's not too painful to lie back like this.

"Hosea-- if you could?"

"Sure," he says, and sits beside the cot on the far side, "Do you mind if I talk to you while Orville looks, Kieran?"

"Uh-" Kieran says. Again, a phrase that, if it weren't coming from this pleasant old man, would sound terrifying. His mind screams _this is just a trick, to get you to talk, it's more torture-_  "Okay. Just- please don't hurt me."

The reverend bends, pulling over a short stool and sitting. "I'm a doctor, even if I run with a gang. I won't."

His hands -- broad with stocky fingers -- very gently press along Kieran's skin, on the arms. Hosea relaxes back -- he looks like he's sitting for a picnic, not keeping eye on a prisoner, on a broken up boy.

"Duffy was your family name, wasn't it?" He asks, watching Orville work, "Are you Irish?"

"Um," Kieran says, "My- uh, my parents were, yes."

"Do you speak Irish?"

"Sometimes," he says.

"That's great," he smiles, "Good to keep those languages going. Orville here speaks some Scots."

"Only a little," the reverend says, his fingers trailing down to the divots along Kieran's collarbones, a frown creasing his face, "And only under influence of alcohol."

"You spoke Scots to us back when you were fixing up Dutch on that train," Hosea chimes.

Orville's hands come up to his neck, and Kieran shudders out a gasp. The image of Colm shatters along his eyelids, painful. Orville's hands come away -- and don't come back, instead gently touching his face. "It's a strange bastard of a language. Best fit to myself, I guess."

He presses against Kieran's cheekbone, his browbone, feels the uneven slope of his nose. The frown only gets deeper.

"What do you like, Kieran?" Hosea says.

"Uh, what do you mean, sir?"

"Oh, I mean things like -- well, I like playing chess, and I like to go fishing, and-"

"Oh, I like fishing. Um. Used to go fishing often. My- it was one of the ways I was useful to my family. That and- horses."

"Horses?"

"Yessir," Kieran mumbles. Most folks made fun of him for liking horses enough. The O'Driscolls... the O'Driscolls had nearly... They'd take it to mean "like" in the way they "liked" women. They had nearly- a foal-

"You like horses?" Hosea says, a broad grin creeping along his face. Hosea's slim hand comes to rest on Kieran's shoulder, so light. "Do you- like taking care of them?"

Oh.

"Yes, I do- I love cleaning them, feeding them- I know a lot about medicines for them-"

Hosea grins wildly. "Oh, I like him," he says to Orville, who is now smiling along with him, as he feels along Kieran's scalp.

Kieran feels a heat flush into his cheeks. And it's the first time it hasn't been accompanied by that low-burning, post-vomit feeling in his throat.

"We have a lot of horses. I'm sure you noticed," Hosea says.

"I did..."

"About all of us have our own horses. And they're usually one-person horses."

"Oh, I love one-person horses," Kieran says, smiling, "Colm's stallion is so fussy -- it's funny."

"Once you're hale enough, and if Dutch agrees with me, could you take care of them?"

Orville's hands are on his ribs now, where most of the pain is. But even when he presses down on the places that feels most painful, Kieran can't contain his excitement and yelps, "Yes, please!"

Orville's frown has returned, with a vengeance. Kieran notices even as he's excitedly talking to Hosea about Branwen, how he helped birth her almost right as Colm found him, left for dead by the side of the road. How her dam had been so so pregnant, she really shouldn't have even been walking with the caravan-

The deeper the furrow in Orville's brows get, the quieter and quieter Kieran gets, until he falls silent.

Orville looks up, furrow clearing. "You stopped talking," he says.

"Oh," Kieran warbles, looking anywhere but his intense eyes. "Um, sorry. I'm too talkative- I should shut up-"

"Are you alright? It hurts that much?" Orville says, lifting his hands off the curve of Kieran's ribs.

"Uh- it's okay, that was normal... no, you were getting annoyed-"

"That was normal?" Orville says, lowly.

He said something wrong. He said absolutely the wrong thing. This was going to get him more hurt, he knows it. He stifles back his breathing again, not ready for those broad, flat hands to hit him.

"Hey, hey," Hosea says, his slim fingers returning to Kieran's shoulder. "Keep breathing. We don't want you passing out."

"That was normal," Orville says, quieter, staring down at his ribcage. "Um, Kieran," he says, biting on his lower lip and grimacing, "Were you- how did- Hosea?"

Hosea and him share a look. It means nearly a whole book, in the way they exchange a glance.

"Had you gotten hurt, before we captured you?" Hosea says, now resting the flat of his palm on Kieran's shoulder.

"Um," he says.

He doesn't know how to say more.

He doesn't... know how to tell someone. Doesn't know how to express Colm's heavy boot slamming into his ribcage right before he left Kieran out in the snow. Doesn't know how to tell them -- I don't think there's been a day of my life where there wasn't something aching or broken, not since I was old enough to think, not since the day my momma spanked me so hard I bled-

"Yes," is what he says.

Orville bites his lips more. Still, his hands keep moving, and Hosea -- has a strange edge to his expression, one that is so obviously displeased that Kieran wants to stand up and do work [now], because if anything had ever kept people from exploding at him, it had been dutifully doing his work without complaint.

"Well, thank you for telling us," he says gently. Hosea's hand smooths little circles on his shoulder, and breath returns to him, gradually.

"You like fishing, then," Hosea returns.

"Oh, sure. Always liked it," Kieran says, voice uneven, "Um... used to catch lot of bluegill. I was never good at getting the very big ones but I could catch a lot. My- My sister and I -- my sister Sinead-"

"Sinead Duffy?" Orville says, quietly, looking up from Kieran's leg.

"Um, yes, that was my sister's name, yeah-"

"Sinead Duffy," he says softly, sharing another look with Hosea. "Um. Yes. Your sister and you, fishing."

"Um," Kieran feels like maybe he's being left out of the loop. "Sinead and I -- we were... quiet, so our mother, she'd ask us to go fishing. The other kids -- they were bolder than us, stronger than us, so they could do the real work-"

Orville touches the rawness of his ankle, where there's a fresh wound -- cut himself accidentally one night on a piece of metal someone'd left around and it just festered in his boot but he could still walk- and his voice goes strangled.

"I'm going to lift your pant leg, kid, is that okay?"

"Uh," he says.

"I won't hurt you," he says, "Or at least, not- not intentionally."

Orville peels away the trouser leg from the wound and it [sears].

"Jesus," Orville spits. Hosea even raises on his knees to see the wound, his eyebrows flashing up. "Kid, when- when the hell did you get this?"

"A week ago-" his voice comes out garbled, raw, "Please, put it back, it hurts-"

Orville doesn't do that though, just stands to grab a bottle of something.

"Oh please, please don't, I'm- Don't hurt me!" he sobs, gripping at his shoulder, quaking, but Hosea is there, his slim hands pressing his shoulders back into the pillow, expression unflapped and waiting to see what Orville is doing.

"I'm so sorry, kid, this is going to hurt like a motherfucker- you want something to bite on?" He soaks a clean cloth in the liquid from the bottle.

"No!" He yelps, more generally than anything else.

"Orville," Hosea warns.

"Listen, we've got to _now_ ," he slings back, "I'm sorry, kid, on the count of three, okay?"

Hosea and Orville count together- and it makes nothing better when Orville sets the cloth onto the healing, bubbling wound.

Kieran shrieks.

And blacks out.

When he comes to, Hosea is there, patting his face gently, murmuring "I told you Orville, you could have gone easier-"

"I really couldn't have!" He replies, "Look at that and tell me I should have waited."

Hosea hisses, grimacing, "Ugh."

"Why'd you have to do that," Kieran weeps, "Why?"

Hosea strokes his cheeks, murmuring sweet words to him. Words that mean something. Words that weren't just brushing away the pain, but apologizing for it.

"Your wound is infected, kid," Orville says, swiping the cloth over once more, another vibrant sting of pain, but less intense, "If we'd waited or let it heal like that, you would have lost the leg."

Kieran falls silent, eyes drifting to the corner of the tent.

And he finds himself drifting, as always.

He drifts back to that place that has no shape or size. No color, no sound. It just exists. He goes there sometimes. He goes there oftentimes.

Sometimes he goes into a story.

Replays parables, stories, stories he watched, sad-eyed, from across the main streets while he waited with the horses for Colm to get back.

Sometimes he flits from one character to the next -- from the dashing prince to the swooning princess and back again.

Sometimes he just watches.

This time, he just drifts.

Drifts and feels -- something, vaguely, something at his ankle.

Decides it's not worth investigating.

Continues to drift.

Drift.

Like being in a cloud. Hazy and white.

Hosea's hand is on his cheek.

His hand?

And his voice, too. Hosea's soft, rough voice.

"Kieran?" he says, softly, "Kieran, are you there?"

He is.

Somehow.

It usually took a lot to bring him back. Something like extreme hunger. Or the threat of gelding tongs.

"There you are," Hosea says, smiling down gently.

He wonders how old Hosea is. How long his years have stretched -- Kieran is twenty-six (or so he thinks) and feels like it has been entirely too long. How old was Hosea?

There's something sad in the turn of his cheek, in the way his face creases.

And Kieran feels... pity.

Or, what he thinks is pity.

There were a lot of times, in that very, very long time he spent with Colm, as his camp boy, as his "wife" (that was the favorite title the other O'Driscolls used) -- there were times when... Colm was almost... fragile.

When Colm would lay his head on Kieran's thigh, and sigh deep. The times when Colm was something almost kind, when he would take Kieran's worn-raw knees and massage them until they felt better -- it's a similar feeling.

It's a strange feeling that's always plagued him -- every time someone was nice to him, his soul ached for them.

He feels it for Hosea in that moment, the man who brushes fingers along his cheekbone.

Orville finishes his assessment.

The wound is bandaged, now. It feels a lot better. Less slimy. Everything aches, but it's manageable.

"Um," Orville says, "You're -- How much... How much pain are you in right now? On a- scale of one to ten, ten being the worst?"

Well, right now?

Almost everything hurts. He can think, though, and nothing is sharp. And if you threw him onto a rock, or had a grizzly be eating him, that would be worse --

"Three?"

Orville's mouth screws up. "You're sure?"

"Um," he says, that itchy feeling dancing under his lungs, "Yes. Three."

Orville furrows his brow one more time, biting his lip.

"Uh, Hosea -- can we discuss?" Orville says.

Hosea stands, patting Kieran's shoulder gently, as he does.

The two men go outside and talk, hushed and sharp.

He's always had good hearing but they still speak low enough he can't make it all out -- "Are we really going to-" "Yes, unfortunately-" "I'm still grieving too, and I wouldn't-" "I know, but this is Dutch we're talking about-" "The kid is-" "I know he is-" "That's not a three-" "I know it isn't."

The two of them return after a moment of tense silence. Hosea smiles when he sees Kieran, but it hangs on him strangely.

Orville looks like he's seen a ghost. He drifts over to the table with the bottles and hands Hosea a bottle of some tincture without looking his way.

"Well, we're going to give you this medication," Hosea says, sitting on the stool Orville had previously taken.

"A... medication?" he mumbles.

Medications were... rarely good. He remembers a lot of dazes and hallucinations -- times when his skin felt so hot it would burn off and Colm just wouldn't stop- thrusting- no matter how much Kieran cried -

"Yes," Hosea says, gently, "It's willow bark. It should help your pain."

Hosea pours out a measure into a small teacup -- something blue-and-white, one of those Asian patterns -- and hands it to Kieran.

"You don't have to take it," Hosea says, standing from the stool, his gentle hand on Kieran's shoulder, "It can be quite bitter."

Kieran eyes the red tea. He could not drink it.

That's new.

He could not drink it.

Just set it down and not drink it. And he thinks -- Hosea probably wouldn't... do anything. Hosea would just take the tea and pour it back into the bottle.

Kieran does drink it, though.

It is bitter, but Orville's made it up with honey and cinnamon -- hardly the worst thing he's ever ingested. Hot, it might even be pleasant to drink.

"Now," Hosea says, leaning once more on the desk, beside where Orville is jotting notes down in a journal, brow furrowed, "This is where I can't give you a choice."

Kieran watches Orville puzzle over the journal. It seems he wrote notes to himself in the past and can't quite make out what he wrote. It's sort of cute.

Hosea steps beside Kieran once more, pressing gentle fingertips to his jaw -- forcing a sting of that pity -- and guiding his attention back to Hosea.

"I have to tie you back up there. And I can't guarantee your health or safety or well-being..." Hosea says, eyes soft, "And I'm sorry that I can't."

He watches the way Hosea's face creases -- this expression, unspeakable, uncomplicated, and honest.

Kieran was used to reading kindness as cruelty -- used to reading the slightest tint or tone or shade of displeasure -- used to people pretending at regret or remorse --

He drinks the rest of the tea slowly.

"Uh," he finally manages to say, handing up the cup again, "Thank you. For the tea."

Hosea smiles, softly. Takes the cup. Hands him a couple kind of funny crackers he takes from his pockets.

"It's not much, but it'll feed you for now. Food will likely be scarce."

Kieran wolfs them down quick, with the help of a cup of water Orville offers, and then, once eaten, he stands once more from the cot.

"Thank you," Kieran says, quietly.

Hosea just nods, and leads him out again, long, elegant fingers wrapped around his wrist.

Hosea ties him up to that tree again -- but a different knot this time. It lets him hang out a little further, stand a little straighter.

"I know it seems counter to what should be," Hosea says, "And in truth, I don't think you're an O'Driscoll. But Dutch is... Dutch, and the folks around here are... following his lead."

Kieran swallows deeply.

"Not a lot of folk in this gang can forgive what's been done. And no one's gonna believe an old man like me if I tell them you're just a sweet young man."

Heat forces its way up into Kieran's cheeks. "Thank you," he murmurs, "But that ain't true -- they all trust you. They all love you. I've noticed."

The older man smiles. "A sweet young man," he repeats, before nodding his head and stepping away, waving silently.


	2. Over-Exhaustion

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We ain't stopping there, boyos!  
> Kieran deserves Friends. Also I know Sean and Mallaidh (Molly) aren't so friendly in-game, but I have to think she'd grab at any chance of connection, any slight bit of home, even if it's in a cocky proto-IRA type.  
> Kieran is touch-starved and falls in love with anyone who's even vaguely nice to him (me too, buddy)  
> Dutch and Hosea are so in love...

Things were... better.

It's interesting stepping around all these new folk -- folk who didn't immediately see him as a camp boy, as Colm's plaything, as something disposable. Not that all them liked him -- far from it -- but it had been more manageable. It was a chance to play many roles.

He liked Sadie, for instance, but Sadie didn't like him -- he understood that; she screamed in his face that the O'Driscolls had killed her husband, the only man she ever loved, screamed in his face that they spat on his body, that they spat on her, they violated her-

He had felt a kinship with her then.

Wanted to explain -- yes, yes, you get it, you get them, how they treated me for twelve years of my life.

He said nothing though. He wanted the words to come, but they were stubborn, and didn't.

Mallaidh O'Shea and Sean MacGuire had inducted him into their little Irish club the day Mallaidh overheard him singing an old lullaby to Branwen.

<<You speak Gaelic!>> she had shouted, making a beeline for him, clutching his roughened, dirty hands with her fine, perfumed ones. She had been so delighted, her normally impassive, although pretty, face lit up.

When Sean had found out, he had headbutted Kieran _hard_ , apparently in a revolutionary's greeting he did back home. It wasn't pleasant, per se, but it was so overwhelmingly good-natured when Sean picked him up and threw his arms around Kieran's shoulders that the pain was forgotten.

They had little seisuns every once and a while, the two of them flittering in Gaelic and Kieran nodding along, smiling lightly at his forgotten tongue. They were an unlikely trio and most of the others didn't quite get it.

Things were better. He'd settled in with them.

Arthur was edging close to something resembling a friend as well, after Kieran had saved his life. After Kieran had shot a man he knew once. (His name was Colin, he liked coffee over beer, his laugh sounded like a bird.) It had been the first time he held a gun and the first time he killed much of anything, other than fish.

He tries not to think about it.

He tries not to think about it at all. Thanks God in heaven that Colm hadn't been there, hadn't been there to see his pet with his enemies. He was glad, too, that none of the men they ambushed paid any attention at all to him, so none of them could recognize him, taunt him, out him as Colm's Darling Wife, the lad they'd seen in lacy chemises and an over-large cardigan that smelled too much like Colm to be subtle or mistakable.

It's been hard sleeping.

Real hard.

Kieran was no stranger to violence. He'd grown up around it, scrubbing blood from his wounds as early as he could wash himself at all -- but there was something sickening about... after years, being the one to kill and injure and maim.

To be the one hurting others was supposed to be fulfilling. Kieran just found it disturbing.

So Kieran does what he's done any other time his nights were plagued with dreams and nightmares -- he doesn't sleep.

He doesn't sleep, and he doesn't sleep, and he keeps himself apart from the rest -- and he swears, swears that in the dead of night, laid out under a little pup tent beside the horses, he can hear Colm calling his name.

That's the worst part. Colm calling his name in that little clicking, whistling tone, that call that sounded more like you were summoning a dog or a horse than a person.

Kieran tries to ignore it all. He tries so hard to.

Kieran spends a lot of his time alone, even with the people he grows close to - it was hard to be around people still without feeling like he'd come down with a flu or a headcold. Colm makes it worse.

It's beginning to get to him, late one night.

Mary-Beth comes over to where he is.

Mary-Beth, of course, was one of his favorite people around camp. She was so sweet-natured, always willing to talk to him, to explain her books or writing or just come and say hello to the horses with him, pat their muzzles. It had been awkward at first -- Kieran talks to people like he would talk to wolves and she had taken it rather personally. But they'd warmed up to each other and were close. He finds that he's been feeling warm and mushy around her, but then, he's been feeling warm and mushy around everyone in camp.

"Hi there," she calls, waiting for him to gesture her over. He's just standing by the fire he made up, but she was always letting him decide if he wanted to talk or not. It was sweet.

"Hi," he says, his voice a little warbly from disuse. He clears his throat as he smiles at her.

"What's new?" She says, coming over and standing by his shoulder, watching the fire.

"Nothing," he says, chuckling a little, "You know that."

She giggles too, bumping his shoulder lightly. "Did you want to hear about what I wrote today?"

"Of course," he says, bumping her back.

"You're so sweet," she giggles. Then she starts in on what she wrote -- a scene today about the lovely widow and her dashing companion growing closer and closer through a picnic -- how _there's a friend of the companion who convinces him not to propose -- oh no!_  -- how Mary-Beth was trying to balance out all the secret backstory so that, in-text, the companion has _no reason to suspect the friend actually had helped care for the widow's husband, who is still alive!_

He listens as much as he can, although the words are swimming a bit. Once or twice Kieran is surprised to find he's said something in response, barely able to remember the words moments after they leave his lips.

His shoulders and back ache, but it was pretty normal for them to do that. Mary-Beth rests her hand on his arm explaining -- _and the companion doesn't get it! He also thinks the widow's husband is dead!_ \-- and he smiles loosely, mind a little hazy.

Something, though, turns for the worse.

Colm's voice -- which had been far-off, deniable -- was close.

It was so close.

Close as in a half mile close. Close as in getting closer by the minute. Mary Beth is explaining how _the lovely widow had been a working gal, how she had fallen in with a bad man who used her -- was cruel one moment and sweet the next_ \-- and then Colm's voice starts calling for "Wifey" and something goes very very wrong.

His ribs feel like they're constricting, squeezing up around his lungs -- like being tight-laced into a corset, like Colm hooking fingers into his shirt collar and pulling up tight as Colm rutted into him deep-

His breath comes short and sudden and he doesn't hear Mary-Beth anymore, although he's aware she's there. His skin goes blank -- no real sensation, this fuzzy sort of awareness -- and his vision narrows down, and his knees buckle under him and he clasps at his neck and throat, trying to regulate down his noisy breathing-

And if he's saying anything or anything's being said it's lost in the kind of din of blood rushing and Colm's voice so close, this kind of cacophony of nonsense sounds, something that feels but doesn't sound like bells, and something that sounds and feels like terror.

"Kieran," a gentle voice says, cutting gently through that sound.

He looks up -- or a direction he thinks is up, his vision is white and the first thing that comes back into focus is a silver belt buckle, and he lurches away.

"Kieran," the voice says again, and he's aware of someone kneeling on the ground beside where he threw himself down, beside where he curls up into a ball. "Kieran, it's me, Hosea."

And then smooth, cool fingers press against the outer bone of his wrist, a gentle touch, and he _trusts_.

"Kieran," Arthur's voice says too, and his broad, warm hand rests on Kieran's knee.

"Breathe deeply, my boy," Hosea says, taking a deep breath himself, gently grazing his fingers along Kieran's wrist in time with it.

It's nearly impossible, at first. He's breathing so quick and in gasps so strong they feel like he can't breathe out.

"Colm," he manages to stutter out, through the broken gasps, and the moment he does, it turns into a wail.

"Colm?" Arthur's deep voice says.

Hosea says nothing on the matter, just strokes Kieran's wrist gently, guiding his breathing with soft words. The two points where the two men touch him are steady, and stable, and warm.

Kieran slowly returns to his body, even as he weeps.

He doesn't really want to. Everything aches in that body -- everything feels weary and strung loose.

But he comes back. And he starts to breathe a little better.

"We'll keep you safe from Colm," Hosea says, gentle. "If you're here, he won't be able to get you. You're safe."

And he- believes it.

Kieran's vision finally clears, although it's hazy. Hosea is kneeling there, Arthur on his other side, Mary-Beth watching from behind their shoulders and an assorted few watching from further behind.

Heat washes over his cheeks. He's made a fool of himself. He sits up way too fast and his vision grays out again, threatening to collapse again until Arthur supports his back.

"Not too fast, now," Hosea says.

"Colm's out in those woods -" Kieran says, mouth chattering, "He's callin' for me -- I can hear him."

Colm's voice comes again and Kieran squeaks - "There, there he is, he's so close to camp-"

Hosea swipes his thumb along Kieran's wrist. "Kieran, I'm not hearing anything."

Something spasms in Kieran's chest. "How can you not hear him he's- so close?"

"I don't hear anything, Kieran. I'm getting on in age, though -- Arthur?"

Arthur looks around, then down at Kieran. "I don't hear Colm," he says.

Kieran lets out a shaky breath. Watches Mary-Beth cock her head.

Hosea's brow furrows. "Kieran," he says, "How much sleep did you get last night?"

Kieran mumbles, "Didn't."

"When was the last time you slept?" Hosea says, his voice edging into something strange.

"Uh," Kieran says, "What's today?"

"It's Thursday."

"Uh," he ticks off days with his fingers. "Monday."

Hosea's eyebrows jump, and then he sighs, "That would do it."

Arthur and Hosea help him to his feet. Mary-Beth gulps behind them, steps back, but only to make room.

"There's such a thing," Hosea murmurs, "As hallucinations caused by lack of sleep."

Arthur kneels, and slings Kieran across his back.

"So you are going to sleep," Hosea says, firm.

His brain is so garbled. But the warm broadness of that back radiates into his skin. It feels like he has a fever.

"Good night, everyone," Hosea says.

His limbs are so heavy. His eyelids feel like stones. He doesn't want to sleep but it will happen to him again, unwanted and unbidden. Piles of hay and quiet nooks in the barn flood his thoughts. Somewhere quiet and safe. Somewhere away from it all. Somewhere where no one would find him and curse him out.

Hosea gently reaches up to touch Kieran's elbow.

That little touch is enough.

Inside a tent, Arthur lets Kieran down onto the bed- it's a real bed. With a mattress. Sheets. It's... soft.

The only time he ever got that was moments before he'd be ousted by his siblings, or when he shared Colm's.

"Shared" Colm's was kind of a complex idea. Most of the time, Colm would... do what he wanted, have his way with Kieran, and then boot him out.

Sometimes, though, after they had played nice, when Colm had settled his sweater over the lacy chemises he'd insist were taken off some camp girls but was fresh and new when Kieran put it on -- Colm would insist on using his lap as a pillow, forbidding Kieran from sleeping because "someone has to watch out for us, pet."

So he hasn't slept in a bed like this in quite a long time.

Kieran sits up, ears pricking again for the sound of Colm's voice, calling his name. He hears it, faintly, in the distance. There's no sense to it. Colm O'Driscoll wasn't here -- wouldn't come just for him. Maybe he would, though, after that murder.

Arthur stands steadfast by the door. Arthur has good hearing, and he apparently doesn't hear anything.

His addled brain, still raw, says -- Why is he on Arthur's bed?

And- did Arthur-? Did Arthur and Hosea intend to- use him the way Colm had?

He...

He would do it. If they asked.

He... didn't hate them. He even... liked them. He was thankful. They were clean, and polite.

"Uh," he says, sliding out of the bed and getting onto his knees. It was very familiar at this point. He doesn't really feel his knees anymore.

"What-" Arthur says, unfolding his arms and standing stiff.

"I'll repay," he says, quietly, "the both of you."

"Repay-?" Hosea says, from where he's bent, fixing the blankets. Hosea's hip is at level with his face, close.

"If that's what you want," Kieran murmurs.

A beat-

" _ **No.**_ " Arthur says.

He comes over and picks Kieran up under the arms, holding him in the air effortlessly. Kieran's legs dangle under him, a foot or more off the ground.

The movement is so sudden and so effortless -- he'd known Arthur's strength but... this was an entirely different thing. Kieran's heart leaps into his throat.

And then Arthur sits him back on the bed.

"No, no _fucking_ way," Arthur growls, "You don't have to pay us shit, kid, especially not with your body. Nope. You're sleeping in this bed, you are not going to even thank us for it."

Arthur stands tall, arms crossed, eyes burning with heat and fury.

Tears well behind Kieran's eyes, and he blinks them down fast, looking at his hands in his lap. "I'm- sorry."

"Hey now," Hosea says, shooting a look up to Arthur, "Arthur's not mad, alright?"

Kieran says nothing. He obviously is.

"I mean it, Kieran. Arthur?" Hosea looks up again at Arthur.

Arthur sighs, his brows still pulled down low. "'M not mad at you," he says, voice graveled low. "I'm mad at fucking _Colm_ -"

"Arthur!" Hosea interrupts, "He's still shaken. No yelling."

"Sorry," Arthur growls. Comes over, settles a big hand on Kieran's head, pats his hair. Kieran flinches, despite himself, but Arthur just pets him. "I'm not mad at you. Don't do that again. You don't need to do that anymore."

Tears prick in Kieran's eyes. But he says nothing.

Hosea quietly stands, asks Arthur if he has a shirt to spare for Kieran. Arthur reaches under the bed and produces a soft shirt, soft cotton flannel, and Hosea smiles.

"Where are you going to sleep," Kieran murmurs, quietly, sniffling.

"Uh," Arthur says, he and Hosea sharing a smile, "I got a place to go. Don't worry about it."

"I don't wanna take your bed," he mumbles, jaw slackening with exhaustion.

"Y'ain't taking anything that wasn't already empty. Promise."

"You should go to that place you got," Hosea laughs, "We'll be alright here."

"Alright. G'night Kieran. G'night Hosea."

"G'night," Kieran mumbles.

Arthur parts the tent flaps and slips out.

"How are you feeling," Hosea says, gently.

"Bad," he says, and Hosea chuckles.

"Suppose that's expected, huh?" Hosea hands him the shirt, pats his shoulder gently.

Hosea looks like he wants to say something else, but he just settles on a nearby stool and gives Kieran some privacy to change.

The shirt is over-large, of course, but there's something honest and sweet about the way it's worn. At one point, Kieran thinks, it might have really been a nightgown -- and the image of Arthur in a knee-length nightshirt is cute, makes him giggles a little.

It's very rare Kieran gets to change his clothes, although he's been doing it more these days. Most of the time, before, it was just when he'd wash them. He didn't really wear underwear -- couldn't wash them frequent enough to keep up the habit and Colm had...

Well, he doesn't want to think about Colm. So instead he focuses on the shirt -- the tartan plaid, light blue and green and white, the way it smells as he slips it over his head -- a bit like Arthur, like woodsmoke and fresh linen and blood, and always this little hint of some wild herb.

Sometimes Arthur smelled like forsythia flowers.

Not that Kieran was sniffing him or anything, he thinks, putting the shirt on once he's stripped. It's just that these days, Mary Beth or Miss Tilly or even Arthur would pull him down into the ring around the campfire, and Kieran would take space between Charles and Arthur, and Arthur would smell like forsythia.

"I'm dressed," he says, and Hosea scoots the stool back over, a smile on his face.

"Let's get you tucked in," Hosea says, gently, "Get comfy."

Kieran curls onto his side.

There was - one night, he thinks. It was one of those weeks where Colm was in jail, gonna be hanged. The others were gone. It was just him and a few of the girls. And he could lay out in his bedroll, safe in knowing the others weren't around, that no one would disturb his sleep or assault him then. And he'd curled onto his side like this, a pillow under his head, and it had been so very good. Best sleep of his life.

This promises to be so much better.

The blanket is soft, and warm. The pillow is fluffed, stiff, but not overly stiff. And Hosea carefully drapes the soft blankets over his shoulders, brushing the hair away from his nape with the kind of gentleness he only remembers from Sinead, his sister, his long-dead sister.

"There, how's that, dear?"

The painful pulse of warmth at the gentle words stings. He doesn't cry, but Kieran thinks he might.

Hosea was too gentle. It was strange to him. Hosea was an outlaw. He knew Hosea had killed before -- it was inevitable, and yet...

And yet that gentle, worn-soft voice felt like the nightshirt, like fresh cotton, like the smell of grass. It had cut through his dreamscape. It had reassured him. Hosea listened and touched gently and was warm-

And he did it for a stranger.

Someone he had no reason to trust. And he did, for some reason. Had reassured Kieran and kept him safe and took care of him.

"How did you- why did you help me?" he stutters, "Why did you know how-"

Hosea looks at him and the words die on his lips.

"Well," Hosea says, softly, "Because my husband has panic attacks. Dutch has them."

The words floor Kieran.

His husband.

Hosea- Hosea was like him! Hosea loved men. Enough to - marry one.

Hosea... loved Dutch.

I know that, Kieran thinks. I knew that.

It was obvious in the way Dutch touches Hosea. It wasn't like how he touches Mallaidh. No matter how much she tried to convince him otherwise, Kieran had known from the start that Dutch didn't love Mallaidh anymore, if he ever had. Didn't have the heart to voice it.

"No one in Colm's gang told you he does, huh? Guess they wouldn't. Most folk don't know anything about Dutch."

"They- told me things about him. Mean things. But... I have the feeling like-" Kieran stutters, "they can't be that true. Not if you married him, Hosea."

Hosea startles out a laugh. "Oh, you're such a sweet boy," he says, reaching to tuck a stray piece of hair behind Kieran's ear, "That's adorable."

"I mean it," Kieran insists, reaching up to touch Hosea's slim wrist. There's a beat where Hosea pulls his hand away, misreading the touch -- Kieran pulls that hand closer, back against his scalp. He wants that touch.

Hosea smiles, but this one is different. Quieter. Sadder.

"My belief in him redeems him?" Hosea asks, brushing his fingers along Kieran's temple.

"I think so."

Hosea chuckles.

"That's funny -- you know he would say the same thing?"

Hosea looks like he wants to tell a story. So Kieran nods, quietly, gestures him to speak.

For a couple moments, Hosea doesn't say anything. He fiddles with Kieran's blankets, smooths a hand down his shoulder, down to his elbow.

But he finally settles, and settles his elbows against the edge of the mattress.

"This is a story I don't think I've told anyone. Not in full truth, not like this," Hosea sighs, "Never felt anyone could listen and understand."

 _I trust you_ , lies implicit, _you can understand._

"I won't," Kieran says, soft, "No one would believe me anyway."

Hosea smiles, brushing his fingers along Kieran's cheekbone.

"The day I found Dutch -- January 1877, couple days after the New Year. Day I found him he was little more than a walking corpse."

His finger bury in Kieran's hair, finger twirling the little curl at his temple, the one that never quite grew like the rest.

"I thought he was a braggart -- some upstart kid who was robbing around my turf because he didn't know better, didn't know the kind of order I'd whipped up in Peoria. But I turned around to face the kid I was about to rob, the kid who thought he was gonna rob me -- and when I turned around there was a man who looked like he could blow over in a breeze, a man with nothing left behind his eyes, all the life drained from him until he was nothing but a watchchain and a gun."

Kieran remembers feeling like that -- no fight, no resistance. It was about when he was eighteen -- three years in with Colm. Colm had started bringing him out to cities. Colm would find men who were like him, people who would kill Kieran normally, wring his neck for being a sodomite and yet... they would always pay three or four dollars for a go with him. That whole year, the entire year of being eighteen, was spent outside his head, in that place with no form and no shape, barely conscious except for when it all collapsed back in on him.

And Hosea unwinds the tale so slowly -- how they went for a meal and a drink at Hosea's urging. How he had lost his parents, his mother to scarlet fever, his father to a railroad spike through the head. How they had been good people, sweet on each other -- how his father had been serious and studious, his mother a bright light that enlivened them both. How when his mother died, the moments of spontaneous music, when his father would pluck down a concertina and play music for him and his mother, died with her. How his father poured himself into work, leaving Dutch on his own.

How he was always nervous. Anxious. He was the only one of them who spoke any English, and he spent his childhood being their translator -- medical prescriptions, legal notices, bills -- Dutch had to translate it all. He grew up in a rigid Protestant community, and the first time he took Mass he broke down with the weight of eternity and damnation on his very small shoulders.

"I did too," Kieran says, quietly.

Hosea laughs. "Somehow I'm not all that surprised. When you saw Orville that first time you tensed like you were going to snap something."

"I probably was," he laughs, too. Hosea's hand is gentle in his hair, with a faint tremor. "I hadn't had such good experiences with men of the cloth."

"And now?"

"I like Orville," he says, "Although Orville isn't much of a Catholic anymore."

Hosea laughs, re-settles his hand on Kieran's shoulder, stroking gently.

Hosea tells him more.

He would always count time -- count a couple seconds. If that amount of seconds passed, and nothing bad happened... then it was fine. He'd count and count.  
His mother died in the middle of one.

When the railroad company called him in to identify the body of his father -- the middle of the count.

"He told me -- the moment I said to him, 'You look like you need a drink,' the moment he felt looked at and safe for the first time in a long time, came as the final moment in a count."

There were other things. Things like a joyous knocking -- a two fingered, heavy handed knock with his ring thudding heavy against whatever surface, the sound of celebration. A desk that looked completely in chaos but was carefully arranged, unable to be moved by anyone but Dutch's hands. The way Dutch wore down on his fingers, scratched them and picked them until they were rough and scabbed and bleeding.

And there was a lot of not sleeping. A lot of not-eating. ("His stomach was too sensitive, he wasn't keeping down food. Or everything bored him, or he was too busy, too wrapped up in some project.") A lot of fitfulness and jitteriness that was hidden in that hand-picking. A manic energy that was never hidden that well. Melancholy when the mania left.

And time -- "Time wove itself around Dutch like a noose.

"He would say 'If you can break time into manageable increments, you can control your time, and control the things in your life.' One time I found him watching a silver marble travelling around a ring of glass -- one of those funny little diversions, you know -- until it all got to be too much, and he came away hoarsely murmuring, 'Time's too much and yet not enough. It's all just flat and circles and circles and circles.'

"But even with all of it, he's such a [good] man," Hosea says hoarsely. It feels like these are words he's been practicing, saying them again and again to himself and never getting the chance to say them elsewhere. "He's a good man. I don't know that I've known anyone quite so kind. I know maybe to you he wouldn't look kind, but the way that he talks to me -- the way he smiles and is always watching, making sure I'm alright, even through all of it? It means the world to me. He's so smart, and he's so silly, and he'll drop whatever he's doing if I'm hurting. And I can-"

And the words go silent on his lips.

He blinks. Slowly. His face lingering in that sad-eyed, wistful look. He brushes back that lock of hair, the curling one, behind Kieran's ear.

Hosea takes a couple of breaths, the air whispering along his lips. Outside, the camp is still active, still noisy -- but in here, for them, the world had paused.

And Hosea tells him more.

All the time Hosea spent convinced that he was fine with simple and casual flings with other men. Bessie, his wife but not his lover, convincing and pushing him to fall honestly and truly in love with Dutch. A night when Dutch sat up in bed with him when he was sick, offered his shoulder as a pillow, read to him from the book he couldn't manage to read, not with a fever.

How Susan Grimshaw broke her engagement with Dutch. How they exchanged no-hard-feelings scarves between them, Grimshaw and Hosea.

How he and Dutch had always been in love with each other. How the gang never dampened or reduced that. How life and Dutch's peculiarities were something they faced together. How they had grown older -- twenty-some years -- together. How Dutch still smiled after their kisses like it was their very first one.

How Dutch had proposed by setting up a chess game, the morning after that welcome-back party for Sean. How he had been playing to corner Hosea into a stalemate, just to wind poetry about two kings forever together in the end -- and had instead gotten distracted enough swapping stories about their romance that he lost.

"It was the only chess game he's ever lost. Against me, against anyone. Had to come up with something on the fly, but it was still beautiful. And then he knelt. And he asked me... before God, before whatever I wanted, to marry him. He laid his head on my lap and _pled_."

"Did you say yes?"

"Of course I did. There was no other answer." Hosea says, so quiet.

"...You love him so much," Kieran whispers, eyes filling with tears.

"I do," Hosea whispers. His eyes are wet too. "I'm sorry- You should be sleeping, and here I am blathering on-"

"No," Kieran says. Takes the hand that's buried in his hair and presses it to his cheek. Like a horse nuzzling into a touch. "No, thank you. I feel like - sometimes I feel so alone, loving men. And I feel so hopeless. I've never seen happiness. Not like yours. Not like yours, that's easy and simple and wanted. And- thank you."

"Of course," Hosea says, gently stroking Kieran's cheekbone. "Thank you for listening."

"I should sleep," Kieran mumbles, _feeling_ the weight of his exhaustion.

"Of course," Hosea giggles lightly, "I'll keep you company until you fall asleep, alright?"

"Okay," he says.

And he finds he does, almost instantly.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> One more chapter that I have planned after this! That one will have an [gasp] _illustration._  
>  Kieran and Hosea best buds 4ever.  
> Thank you to @tacituskilgore for his Dutch dialogue.  
> Kudos and comments are always appreciated!


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